


On the Existence of Certain Artefacts Found in the Rooms of One Principality Aziraphale by the Demon Known as Crowley

by freyjawriter24



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley keeps souvenirs of their time together, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Post-Scene: The Ritz (Good Omens), so does Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23954266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjawriter24/pseuds/freyjawriter24
Summary: A demon wakes up from a well-deserved nap and is suddenly confronted with one or two memories/truths about his relationship with a certain angel.Or, after the world didn't end, Aziraphale and Crowley finally make their feelings known.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 119





	On the Existence of Certain Artefacts Found in the Rooms of One Principality Aziraphale by the Demon Known as Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something to commemorate 30 years of Good Omens the book, and almost a year of Good Omens the TV show.

The first thing that caught his eye was a flower.

It caught his eye mainly because he was simply lying at the right angle to see it when he first woke up, but it caught his _attention_ because it was a plant – an actual, living plant – and he wasn’t at home. He was in the angel’s flat.

It took a moment for his sleep-slowed mind to catch up on everything that had happened last night, and then another moment to add that to the events of the last few days, and then a further moment to fully process the enormity of what that meant.

And then he looked back at the flower.

The thing was, he knew this flower. Not just the species – _Spathiphyllum cochlearispathum_ , a Peace Lily – but the actual individual itself. It was decades ago that he’d last seen it, placed carefully yet awkwardly on a small stack of books downstairs in the bookshop, but it was definitely the same one. It was even in the same pot, a simple grey-and-beige striped affair, except now it was tucked in the corner of the room, on a chest of drawers scattered with other odds and ends. Crowley would have given Aziraphale credit for keeping the plant in the right conditions, except the only thing the flower needed was not to be in direct sunlight, and the demon was pretty sure there wasn’t a single spot in the bookshop that _was_ in direct sunlight. Come to think of it, that may have been a factor in him choosing it to give to Aziraphale in the first place.

The Peace Lily. The flower he’d left Aziraphale to apologise. The one he hadn’t seen since. It was _here_. In Aziraphale’s bedroom. In his private flat. In a room Crowley hadn’t even known existed until last night, when the angel had guided him, half-awake, up here to sleep off the strains of a corporation-swap and an apocalypse that didn’t happen.

The demon rolled out of bed, no longer groggy from sleep, and sloped his way across the room towards the flower. Which was when the second thing caught his eye.

Beside the flowerpot, on top of the chest of drawers, was a box of chocolates.

More accurately, it was a box that _had once contained_ chocolates. He and Aziraphale had eaten them together, once Gabriel was out the way, to celebrate the opening of the bookshop. Two _centuries_ ago.

Crowley couldn’t help but stare. The box was dust-free, the ribbon in pristine condition. It was precisely placed, lined up neatly with the edges of the surface it was on, positioned carefully alongside the collection of other things on the chest of drawers with it. The other things...

For several minutes, Crowley did nothing but look in awe at the items in front of him.

There was a theatre ticket – to the Globe in the 50s, the first production they’d been to together since their argument. There hadn’t been tickets back when they went for the first time, or for any time when Bill had been alive. But there had been by then, and apparently Aziraphale had kept his.

There was a receipt, a reminder of a silly trip to Ireland in the 80s, when Crowley had convinced Aziraphale to try out Europe’s first drive-through restaurant. It was a ridiculous thing to commemorate, the angel had argued, but Crowley had talked about the beauty of technology, the ease of access, the inclination towards sloth and gluttony it would encourage, and eventually he’d agreed to go. They’d bickered over something inane, and then shared burgers and chips, and Crowley couldn’t remember why but they’d ended up laughing, so much and so hard that he was certain he hadn’t felt joy like it in centuries.

There was an envelope, lying there reverse-side-up, displaying a green wax seal with a serpent pressed into it – his own seal, from forever ago. Crowley didn’t dare pick up the letter to see if the message itself was still inside, but he knew which one it was, anyway. There was only one occasion when he’d deviated from his usual use of red wax.

There was also a camera, a clunky little digital thing that had to be at least a decade out of date. It was one Crowley was sure he’d never seen before, certainly not in Aziraphale’s possession, and it wasn’t until he realised what the camera was resting on that it started to make sense.

It was sat on an old, cloth-bound photo album.

Crowley wasn’t sure at what point it happened, but somehow he ended up back on the bed, legs folded and the album open on his lap, his long fingers paging through memories he hadn’t even realised had been preserved.

It seemed like Aziraphale had gotten the camera somewhere around the early 2010s. There were pictures in there of Warlock, mainly – to begin with, at least. The little boy in a highchair, mouth smeared with food; on his first ever tricycle, face split in a dazzling grin; sat in a flower bed, covered in mud, blossoms perched haphazardly in his hair.

Most of the early shots were simple portraits, Warlock gleefully aware of the camera and playing to it in the un-self-conscious way he had been when he was little. None were blurry, even though some perhaps should have been – not that Aziraphale would have thought of that, Crowley thought with a fond smirk.

But as the album went on, more and more of the photos seemed to have been taken covertly. There were natural shots of Warlock – aged eight or so, wholly focused on a book almost too large for him to hold; dressed as a devil at Halloween, peering happily into a pumpkin-shaped bucket full of sweets; intent on his hand-held games console, frowning down at the screen, completely unaware of the camera on him, or the gardener holding it.

And more and more of them had other people in them too. Well, one other person. Red-haired, wearing black pencil skirts and carrying appropriately Nanny-themed items, playing games with Warlock, smiling at the not-the-Antichrist as he did something naughty or messy or wholly human, some photos even taken without the child present, of the occult being relaxing in the garden or dozing in the gardener’s cottage, never aware of the camera, always looking natural and herself.

Crowley had no memory of any of these photos being taken. He even remembered the events depicted – there was the day of Warlock’s tenth birthday, when the demon had been preoccupied by the thought that they only had a year left. Aziraphale had managed to capture the one moment that day when Crowley had lapsed from that line of thinking – when Nanny was grinning in pure delight at Warlock, who had a fistful of Victoria sponge and was in the process of throwing it directly at the back of his for-once-present father’s head. Thaddeus had immediately turned a violent shade of reddish-purple, but a word from the Nanny had sent him inside to clean up, and then he hadn’t returned for the rest of the party, to the secret joy of most people involved.

There were only a few pictures left after that one. Warlock was in only a couple of them, Nanny now wholly taking pride of place in the album. The last one with their godson in it was of Warlock spraying his own name on the back of the shed at the bottom of the garden, the paint the same colour as Nanny’s laughing eyes, the demon failing dismally at remaining straight-faced.

Crowley smiled at the memory, then idly flipped the photo to the album’s final page. And froze solid.

It took him a moment to even process fully what he was looking at. Because at first glance, he didn’t even recognise the being depicted.

Shoulder-length hair, loose from its usual strict updo, was tucked behind the ear of the photograph’s subject, allowing the photographer to capture just the edge of the turned-away face. Sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw contrasted with the softness of the person’s posture, tucked up as they were on a window seat, looking outwards. The morning sunshine was too bright to see what they were looking at, but Crowley knew the view almost innately. It was of Warlock, sullenly kicking a football around in the garden, on Nanny’s last day as part of the Dowling household.

Something ached deep inside Crowley’s chest as he recognised the photo for what it was, but he couldn’t properly describe the feeling. It was like loss – or nostalgia, perhaps – or longing, or love.

“You looked so gorgeous there, my dear, I couldn’t help it,” a voice said softly behind him.

Crowley hadn’t heard him come in, but the angel’s presence didn’t make him jump. It simply felt _right_.

Aziraphale approached the bed, standing so he was right behind the demon, close enough to touch. Crowley didn’t look up, his eyes still tracing the lines of his own face in the photograph, looking out forlornly over the garden. He looked more like himself here than in any of the pictures where he was Nanny – no pencil skirt, for one, and his hair was long and loose, the way he liked it – but he also looked _different_ from how he saw himself day-to-day. No suave, effortless cool, no snazzy boots and trendy sunglasses. Just his own bare feet, uncovered eyes, and loose-fitted uncertainty.

“You almost looked like a Renaissance painting of an angel,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Your hair and the sunlight. Like a halo.”

Crowley didn’t even try to say anything against that. He could do nothing but stare.

“Except, of course, you aren’t,” the real angel continued. “And that’s there too. You can almost see your eyes, reflected in the glass, and you’d left your scales on show, and of course your tattoo. And you just looked so... So perfectly _you_.”

It wasn’t until the moment those words left Aziraphale’s lips that Crowley finally understood what exactly he was looking at. It wasn’t just a photograph of him, sat in the window of someone else’s house, about to leave behind for good a place where he’d felt loved and needed and wanted. It wasn’t just a photo of a demon looking like an angel, unreal and unsure and unprepared for what was to come. It was a photo of Crowley as Aziraphale saw him, flaws and all. And, somehow, he looked _beautiful_.

Crowley closed his eyes, and let the tears fall down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry that I took it without asking,” Aziraphale said gently, unaware of the track marks now running down his friend’s face. “I didn’t want to lose the moment. And I didn’t think you’d let me, even if I had asked. I’m sorry. It was rude of me.”

Wordlessly, the demon reached behind him and found Aziraphale’s wrist. He clasped it gently, and brought it around himself, and held the angel’s hand like lords used to hold ladies’. Carefully, without letting himself think too much about it, he pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s hand, leaving a soft, damp kiss there, and then held their clasped fingers to his chest.

“Thank you, angel,” Crowley whispered, eyes still shut. “I’m glad you took it.”

They stayed like that for a while, neither wanting to move, neither daring to think too much. Crowley staunchly refused to let his mind wander in the direction of burning bookshops and lost angels and this particular photo album vanishing from existence undiscovered. Aziraphale, apparently, was refusing to let himself breathe.

Eventually, the demon loosened his grip, and Aziraphale moved wordlessly around the bed to take back the book and place it in its right place. The angel wavered for an instant when he looked back at Crowley, wet uncovered eyes staring up at him. But then he came closer again, reaching his hands forward to cup the demon’s cheeks, gently swiping his thumbs upwards to dry the tears there. Neither of them said a word as the angel left his hands there a moment longer, a moment too long. Then Aziraphale broke the moment, letting go and bustling away to the bedside table, where he’d left a steaming mug of tea beside Crowley’s abandoned sunglasses.

“Let me know if you’d prefer something else,” the angel said briskly. “But tea’s always a good morning drink, and I thought you’d need it after... everything. You were exhausted last night. I practically had to carry you up here.”

“I remember, angel,” Crowley said, a slight smile curling the edge of his mouth now. He took the offered mug. “Wish you had. My feet were killing me.”

“Well. I could always carry you back downstairs, if you’d prefer. I won’t be opening the shop for a couple of days, I should think, so there won’t be anyone else around.”

Crowley felt his cheeks warm a little at the suggestion of Aziraphale carrying him anywhere when he could perfectly well walk there on his own. But something was still niggling at the back of his mind.

The photo album. The flower. The tickets and receipts and tiny little fragments of conversations, meetings, experiences. They all reminded the demon of something in himself that he often struggled to address.

A tartan scarf Aziraphale had once forced on him. A book from a burning bookshop. A lectern shaped like an eagle.

“Angel...” Crowley began, lowering the mug of tea to his lap. “I was... Do you... I...” His mouth fumbled around a few more syllables of sound before he cut himself off with a sigh. _Don’t go too fast. Let him come to you._

“I just wanted to say that, er, well. You mean a lot to me, alright, angel? And I don’t... I mean, you’re my best friend. And I wanted... I want to make sure you know that, okay?”

Aziraphale was stood in front of him, blue eyes staring down into the demon’s and swimming with emotion. “I do, Crowley. Thank you. And, ah... You mean a lot to me, too. An awful lot. But you know that.”

The demon nodded and looked away. Suddenly the sentiment of the situation was a little to intense to deal with, and his eyes fell on the sunglasses, neatly folded on the bedside table.

Aziraphale followed his gaze. “Oh, please don’t, dearest.”

Crowley froze. For a second, he couldn’t have even breathed, let alone reached out for his sunglasses and put them on. Then, slowly, as if trying not to startle a frightened wild animal – though whether the animal was Aziraphale or himself, he wasn’t quite sure – he turned to face the angel again.

“Dearest?” he breathed.

Aziraphale’s face softened. “Of course,” he said simply. “If that’s alright with you.”

“Yesss,” he said, too quickly. “Uh, yeah, yes, sure, perfectly.” He gave a weak smile, then a small, uncertain laugh. “Tickety-boo.”

Oddly enough, that seemed to be what did it. That phrase, so horribly unstylish and out of its time, so wholly suited to the one of them that wasn’t saying it, was all it took.

Aziraphale closed the small distance between them, took Crowley’s face in his hands for the second time that morning, and kissed him.

It was too short, over in an instant, and Crowley barely had time to process that _this is happening_ before they were parted again, Aziraphale stepping back and taking his hands away with him.

Without thinking, the demon caught hold of one of Aziraphale’s wrists with his free hand. “Wait.”

He was shaking. He could feel it. Perhaps they both were.

Crowley carefully stood, placed the still-full mug of tea on the bedside table, and turned to face Aziraphale. The angel looked up at him, face soft with joy and hope and confusion all at once.

Maybe this was too fast. Maybe he’d regret it. Maybe Aziraphale would suddenly bolt out the door and pretend nothing had happened, and they’d go on dancing around one another for a decade or two more. But for now, in this moment, Crowley wasn’t going to waste the chance.

He stepped closer, one hand still loosely on the angel’s wrist, and placed his other tea-warmed palm on Aziraphale’s cheek. The ethereal being’s eyelashes fluttered for a second at the contact, and he breathed in softly, ever so slightly.

“Is this okay, angel?” Crowley asked as gently as he could.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Could I...?”

“Please.”

They kissed again, and _oh_ , there it was. That beautiful, delicious softness, that delicate, tender firmness, that instant motion of six thousand years of meaning. It was indescribable, and perfectly slow and yet far too fast, and Crowley was caught between losing himself in the moment and cataloguing every atom of this for future reference. Perhaps he’d discorporate, wind up back in Hell, and this was the last thing he’d ever do. _Worth it_ , he thought wildly.

Later, they’d take the photo album out again, and talk and laugh over it together. They’d reminisce about Warlock’s childhood, remember and misremember days out with the not-the-Antichrist, and discuss the morality of kidnapping him to live out a better childhood with two celestial beings than the one he was currently being given with his two distant parents and a whole house of paid staff.

Later, they’d place the Peace Lily on the kitchen table of a lovely little cottage tucked away somewhere in the South Downs, next to an eternally-present pile of ancient books and some quaint little coasters for their mugs of tea and cocoa.

Later, they’d use the same antique digital camera to take photographs of Warlock at his eighteenth birthday, his graduation, his wedding. They’d frame some of them, and slot the rest into another, matching photo album to get out and embarrass him with when he came round.

But for now, they kissed. And that was all either of them wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> On the colour of the sealing wax, please note [this lovely little meta](https://perfectlyineffable.tumblr.com/post/616915352652300288/kedreeva-fuckyeahgoodomens-yes-yes) on the subject that arose as a result of today’s video...


End file.
